Danny stood alongside the busy highway, unseen by the passing drivers. They whizzed by, too fast, and he smiled to himself as he thought "if someone ran out in front of them, they'd never stop in time."
Time passed, but Danny payed it no real heed. Time meant very little to him now, and he was extremely patient. The traffic thinned as the night wore on, until a car passed only every few minutes. Now Danny could reveal himself, and go on his annual journey. A journey home that he would never complete.
The pattern would repeat itself as it had done every year for over a decade now. A car would pass, and his hopefully extended thumb would trap it. The passenger door would open and a kindly face would appear and say 'wanna lift?'
Danny would smile and nod, and climb in. The driver would ask how far he was going, and Danny would simply say, as always, that he was heading for home in Baker. They would drive off, the driver listening to Country radio, or humming, or chatting incessently about a restaurant in Baker they ate at once.
But Danny wouldn't really pay attention, because he was focussed on that cold knot in his stomach, that became tighter and colder as they drive further away from that spot to which Danny is so inextricably tied. And eventually, Danny would fade from sight, and find himself stood once again by the side of the road, insubstantial and patiently waiting for a ride home.
Headlights approached, and Danny was surprised to see that it was an old Greyhound Bus. It pulled up alongside him, even though he'd not lifted his thumb. The doors folded themselves open in that characteristic jerky way, and the driver looked across at him. His cap was shabby, and his jacket dusty. Danny thought he looked like Mickey Rooney, but more sinister. The driver hailed him.
"All Aboard!"
Danny climbed uncertainly onto the bus. There was a scattering of passengers, dressed in a range of clothing from the past fifty years. They looked to Danny like they were painted on to the scenery, like they weren't really there. All looked back at him with flat expressions and sorrowful eyes. Danny felt uncomfortable, and turned and jumped back off the bus. The Driver merely shook his head slowly.
Danny heard the hiss and clank as the doors closed behind him, and he turned to watch the bus pull away, reading the operator name written in black down the silvery side of the bus.
"Flying Dutchman Line"
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